


Carer & Caretaker

by sparksearcher



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Flu, Fluff, Sick Fic, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksearcher/pseuds/sparksearcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Clara take care of each other when they're ill.  Post Last Christmas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carer

The Doctor opened his eyes and then shut them again with a groan. He felt a throbbing in his head, and his stomach hurt.

"Oh good, you're awake," Clara said, relieved and seemingly unaware of the discomfort the Doctor was experiencing. "How are you feeling?"

He grunted. "Too loud," he complained, raising a hand to his eyes. "And too bright."

The TARDIS obligingly dimmed her lights and lowered her humming at his sour tone. 

"Better?" Clara asked softly.

"Mmm." He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. They were in the console room, and he was sprawled out on the floor. Clara was perched nearby on the stairs, watching him intently. She approached and crouched down next to him. Her fingers were unusually cool as she traced them over his brow, and she tutted her disapproval at whatever she felt on his face. Or maybe it was disapproval at this situation.

The Doctor attempted to squirm away from her touch and he finally took notice of the pillow under his head. Soft and the pillowcase was covered in little cartoon animals. Not one of his then. A peek at his toes showed the matching blanket was draped over his body. "Clara," he croaked. Clearing his throat, he spoke again. "Clara, what happened?"

"You blacked out." Her fingers left his face and were now trailing down his body, pressing gingerly and checking for injuries.

He scoffed. "Seriously, what am I doing on the floor?"

"You blacked out," she repeated, firmer this time. "One minute you were going on about the history of some rebellion and writing something on your blackboard. The next you were silent and on the floor." She helped him sit up and pointed at the closest chalkboard; it clearly had a line trailing off the last word he wrote while collapsing. "Nearly gave me a heart attack by the way, and the TARDIS was no help at first. So thanks for that. "

"Oh." The Doctor winced when Clara's hands pressed against the base of his spine. "Clara, I'm fine. You don't need to check if I'm hurt."

"Yes, I do. You're bloody stubborn, and I don't think you'll tell me if you're hurting."

He heard the sonic screwdriver whir behind him. "Clara, give me that," he demanded, grabbing for it and missing as she easily dodged away.

"Hang on, I'm checking if you've got some kind of alien virus or something." She looked at the readings in confusion, shook the sonic, and scanned him again. Several emotions played out on her face- concern, surprise, sadness, bewilderment- before her features settled into anger. "Doctor, when was the last time you ate something?"

"Couple hours ago. When we helped invent pizza. Honestly, Clara, I can't believe you don't remember that." He stood up, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, and staggered forward a few steps on shaky legs. "Clara, what's this about?"

She clenched her jaw tightly. "That was two days ago," she grit out. "You haven't eaten in two days?"

The Doctor gripped the edge of the console. "Now, now. There's no reason to be cross. But two days doesn't sound right. Are you sure you're not confused?"

"You're more likely to be confused than I am," she shot back. "Two days. After Italy we went to the cinema, but we didn't have any snacks. Yesterday we went to that marketplace in the morning and then you started all of this." Clara gestured to the four blackboards covered in his writing and then grew angrier when she spotted a plate on his chair. "Before I went to bed you promised you'd take a break. I left you a sandwich and you didn't even touch it," she said accusingly.

"I lost track of time," he argued weakly. "Happens to the best of us." The Doctor's grip loosened and he swayed. Clara grabbed his arm to keep him upright.

"You do realize it's going to be a long time before I believe that you're telling the truth about you taking care of yourself, right?"

"You don't trust me?" He gave her a hurt look before masking it behind indifference.

"I trust you on the big stuff. The saving the universe stuff. But you seem to forget that it's important to save you too. I want you to stick around for a long time, okay?" She placed a hand on the center of his back and propelled him forward.

"Okay. Where are we going?"

"Kitchen. Get you something to eat." Now that he was moving, the hand on his back reached down to lace their fingers together instead, and Clara marched away from the console room, towing the Doctor behind her. "Sit!" she barked out, pointing at his usual stool in front of the breakfast bar.

"Clara, you don't have to treat me like a child," he grumbled as he eased himself down.

"Clearly I do because when I let you take care of yourself, you do a rubbish job at it." She stalked away and flung open one of the cabinets roughly.

"Is that really how you see me? As a child or maybe some kind of exotic alien pet?" he snapped.

She paused in retrieving a glass and walked back over to him. "What? No, of course not." Her hands settled on his shoulders and smoothed the blanket over his arms. "You're my best friend, and I care about you. Look, I know I'm being really controlling right now, but I'm trying to do what's best for you. You don't always make it easy, and you really scared me earlier." She reached into the blanket to squeeze his hands and smiled slightly when he squeezed back. Clara filled the glass with water and handed it to him. "Doctor, drink this. You're probably dehydrated too."

"Is the crazy straw really necessary?" he asked sardonically as he removed it from the glass.

"Put it back. It forces you to take smaller sips."

"When did you start being so bossy to people that don't feel good? Just because I'm difficult doesn't mean you need to be difficult too. The people that complain about my bedside manner should see yours."

She ignored that. "I'm going to make breakfast. What would you like?"

"Cocoa Puffs or Frosties. And chocolate milk."

Clara snorted. "I don't think so. Eggs and toast or pancakes and fruit?"

"Pancakes. Please," he added as an afterthought. The Doctor drank his water and watched it swirl through the loops on the crazy straw. A glance over at Clara revealed her hoisting herself up on the countertop to reach the mixing bowl. "Do you want help?"

"Probably not a good idea for you to be near an open flame or using anything sharp until we get some food in you and get your strength up, yeah?" she said gently.

The Doctor rested his head on the bar and pouted. "You're probably right."

He sounded so dejected and miserable that Clara took pity on him. She gathered all the necessary items for pancakes and set them next to him, along with a recipe card. "Here, you can make up the batter, and I'll cut up some fruit. And don't eat the raw batter." She trailed a hand over his shoulders and smiled that he no longer tensed under her touch.

"Yes boss." He pushed the sleeves of his favorite black hoodie up to his elbows and started measuring out flour while Clara rinsed and cut up strawberries and apples. "Although I'm ninety-nine percent sure that eating raw eggs wouldn't actually hurt me."

"Let's not take that one percent chance."

The bulk of her irritation had dissipated when the Doctor wondered if she only saw him as a child or a pet, and she managed to cut the fruit efficiently but without mutilating it. Of course she didn't see him as a child- he was over 2,000 years old! Sure he had his immature moments, like competing with Robin Hood or rudely telling Santa to shut up and okay, maybe she tells him what to do a lot, but that's usually just to stop him from doing something stupid. Clara felt guilty about the exotic alien pet jab. Probably deserved that, she realized as she finished her chopping. She still regretted that the first thing she told Danny about the Doctor was he's an alien. He's a friend would have been a much better explanation. But surely the Doctor heard her when Rigsy asked if they were aliens and she immediately said no, and then had to correct herself? She glanced over at the Doctor, and smiled to herself as he measured out the flour, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. Even not feeling well, he looked adorable with his ruffled hair and her bedding draped across his shoulders.

The Doctor finished the batter, and Clara took the bowl away, leaving more water and some of the fruit in its place. "Doctor, eat this but do it slowly."

She poured the batter on the griddle, then grabbed a few more things from the fridge, keeping her back to the Doctor so he couldn't see what they were, but he soon heard the unmistakable sound of bacon sizzling.

Without getting up from his stool, the Doctor leaned over and pulled knives and forks from the closest drawer and set the table. It wasn't as nice as when Clara does it- she frequently nipped out to the garden and filled a vase with fresh flowers. He rummaged through his pockets as he chewed his fruit and pulled out a few candles and a book of matches. Better than nothing. He stuck the tapers into a candelabra and lit them. He adjusted its position on the breakfast bar when Clara came over balancing plates and a pitcher of orange juice.

"Candlelit breakfast, Doctor?" she teased as she placed the plates down. "Now all we need is some mood music. That was a joke!" she yelled when the TARDIS thoughtfully provided some Kenny G through speakers Clara couldn't even see. The music stayed on, but lowered, and she rolled her eyes. 

"Payback for you saying she was no help earlier."

"Fine, she helped by shuffling my room closer so I could grab my blanket and pillow for you. And by informing me you were not dead when I panicked a bit." She poked her food with a fork. "Now I feel bad I didn't make you a more grown-up breakfast. She'll probably try to get back at me for that too."

The Doctor gave his plate a cursory look. Pancakes, bacon, fruit. On a second glance, he realized Clara had turned his meal into a giant face. His pancake had a frowny bacon mouth, strawberry eyes, and sliced apple attack eyebrows. She had even given it messy whipped cream hair.

"Is that supposed to be me?" he asked, somewhere between flattered and affronted.

"Yep." She popped the 'p' around a mouthful of bacon. On her own plate rested a normal pancake that had not been turned into a face. "Cute, right?"

She hadn't meant to offend him then. He settled into flattered and bit back the comment that if he were to make a pancake of her face, he would need an entire cantaloupe for her eyes.

"Whatever you say." He poured syrup on his pancake and cut into it. It tasted pretty good, even though it was a bit strange to eat a pancake effigy of himself. Probably not any stranger than Clara going out of her way to make a pancake effigy of him though.

The Doctor felt much better after eating and cleared away the dished without a word of complaint. He took Clara's hand and pressed a sticky syrup kiss to her knuckles. "Thank you for looking out for me."

"Always. That's why I'm your carer." She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek.


	2. Caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor returns the favor when Clara gets the flu.

The one time the Doctor had not been feeling well, he mocked Clara’s carer skills. So when she woke up with the flu a few weeks later, she was not looking forward to seeing his attempts to care for her. Maybe she could convince him to just leave her alone for a few days until she was starting to recover. Once she was past the worst of it, then she would have the patience to deal with his  
brusque bedside manner. 

Three sharp knocks on her bedroom door, then the Doctor opened the door and stuck his head in. “Wake up sleepyhead.”

Clara groaned. “Doctor, the point of knocking is you’re supposed to wait until I tell you it’s okay to come in. I could have been changing.” The coughing fit made her glare less effective.

He paused halfway between the door and the bed. “You sound awful.” He scanned her with the sonic and checked the results. "Influenza. Estimated duration of five days.“ His features creased into a pout. "Well, that’s all our plans for the week canceled.”

“You don’t need to do that. Why don’t you go out for a few days, and I’ll join you when I feel better?” Please, please go along with this idea.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Clara. All of time and space. We’ll go next week. Now, what do you need to feel less miserable?”

 

Clara thought for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t turn down tea. Tissues would be good too. And maybe some water?”

“Right, okay, I can do that. Back in a flash.” He hustled out of the room, coat flapping behind him, and Clara settled back into bed with a sigh. The Doctor returned about ten minutes later with a tray balanced in one hand and a plastic shopping bag hanging off the other. “Tea and a bagel and water, coming right up.” He set the tray down on the empty half of the bed.

Clara eyed the bag warily. “Doctor, what’s that?”

He reached in and started pulling items out. “Tissues, juice, some medicine the TARDIS whipped up for you, another pillow, extra blanket, cozy pajamas, a bin in case you get sick…”

She stared at him as he eased her up into a sitting position. “I didn’t know you did this.”

“Did what?” He tucked a pillow between her back and the headboard.

“Be a proper medical doctor. I pictured you telling me to walk it off or rub some dirt in it rather than the coddling.” She started eating her bagel, delighted that the Doctor remembered that she liked peanut butter on one side jelly on the other, and for the two halves to be pressed together into a sandwich.

The Doctor fixed her with a look. “Clara, I’m not coddling you. I don’t plan to sit here and wipe your nose. I’m doing what needs to be done to facilitate healing. And you’ve seen me be a caretaker before. That’s what I’m doing now, just taking care.”

“That’s not the definition of caretaker and you know it.”

A shrug. “Maybe not in your English. Make sure you finish all your food. The medicine has some pretty nasty side effects on an empty stomach.” The Doctor held up a vial of acid green liquid.

Clara made a disgusted face. “That looks gross.”

“Probably doesn’t taste good either.”

“Probably?”

Another shrug. “She made it for you because you’re sick. I didn’t taste-‐test it.”  
Clara finished her breakfast, drained her mug of tea, and held out a hand. “I’m ready.” She had her water nearby to use as a chaser.

The Doctor used his teeth to pull out the stopper and passed the vial. Clara smelled it suspiciously and took a tentative sip. Her eyes widened.

“Are you going to be sick?” The Doctor grabbed the bin and held it next to her.

She hook her head. “No, it’s fine. Tastes like apple.” She smacked her lips and tipped back the rest of the liquid. “What’s it supposed to do anyway?”

He smiled and gave a low chuckle as he set the bin back on the floor. “Break up the mucus, help clear out your sinuses, reduce your fever, and give you a bit more energy so you don’t feel as lethargic.” He kept a careful eye on the clock and started packing most of the items back in the bag. “Honestly, I’m shocked you didn’t ask before you drank it. Now come on, get out of bed. Change your pajamas. Quick like a bunny.” He waved a hand and turned his back to her.

Clara took the flannel pajama set the Doctor had pulled out of the bag. “I’ve been around you long enough to adapt the ‘put it in the mouth first and ask questions later’ mentality you have.” She frowned. “I should probably unadapt to that for my own safety. But you gave this to me, and I trust that you wouldn’t intentionally harm me.”

“Yes, yes, are you changed yet?” He started to turn around.

“Hey, not yet!” Clara stepped into the flannel bottoms, pulled her nightgown over her head, and tugged on a tank top. “Okay, now.”

She sat down heavily and coughed into a tissue.

The Doctor held out thick wool socks and the flannel top. “Put these on too.”

She hook her head. “No more clothes, Doctor. I’m too hot.”

He ignored her and grabbed Clara’s legs to stuff her feet into the socks, also ignoring her sound of indignation. “Hot damn,” he said drily, referencing one of her favorite songs to play when cooking. “The medicine is going to make you very cold soon while it brings your fever down. The extra clothes will help.” During his explanation, he managed to gently wrestle her into the shirt, and his fingers confidently buttoned it. He offered his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” She took his hand and slid her feet into her slippers, their footsteps echoing in the corridor.

“TARDIS set up a different bedroom to facilitate your recovery.” He stopped in front of a room Clara had walked past but never entered before.

“Isn’t this your room?” she asked carefully.

“Yes.” He led her inside. “Thought you’d prefer that to the medbay. Warmer linens, soft bed, you should be comfortable here. Sorry, I don’t have three mirrors.”

Clara laughed. “Sounds like I’ll be doing more sleeping than anything anyway.” She yawned. “Feel knackered all of a sudden.”

The Doctor checked his watch. “That’ll be the medicine kicking in.” He turned down the covers and ushered her into his bed.

“You said I would have more energy.” She closed her eyes without bothering to look around.

“After it knocks you out and forces you to get some rest. It’s the nearest replication the TARDIS could synthesize to a healing coma.”

He reached behind Clara’s head and fluffed the pillows. “Is there anything you want from your room? The TARDIS is going to sterilize all your belongings so you don’t just reinfect yourself the next time you sleep in your room.”

“My quilt,” she mumbled. “From my bed.”

“Alright.” The Doctor kissed her forehead lightly. “She should be almost done cleaning it. Stay in the bed, but if you need the loo, it’s through that door.” He pointed at the far wall.

“'Kay.” She inhaled the Doctor’s scent on the pillows and then sneezed.

“Bless you. Don’t blow your nose on my pillow,” he joked.

The Doctor was only gone for about two minutes before Clara’s next coughing fit drove her to sit up. Feeling like she was definitely maybe going to be sick, she propelled herself out of bed and into the en-‐suite. Clara kneeled down and positioned herself over the bowl just in time for her breakfast to make a reappearance. She spent several agonizing moments gagging and moaning. When she was done she kept her head down and panted, trying to breathe normally again and willing the tears in her eyes away. It wasn’t until  
the Doctor leaned over and pushed the handle that she realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

“How long have you been there?” she asked without turning around.

“Long enough. I’m surprised you didn’t realized I was holding your hair back.”

Clara put a hand to the back of her head. Sure enough, he was gripping her hair in a loose ponytail. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Do you think you’re going to be sick again or do you want to get up?”

“Up please.”

He helped Clara to her feet and gave her some water to rinse her mouth. A wet washcloth was pressed to her face, and he wiped her clean. “Aside from the vomiting, how are you?”

“Bit dizzy.” She clutched his arm to keep her balance.

The Doctor carefully lifted Clara into his arms. “I’ve got you.” He carried her out of the bathroom and set her down on the bed. He smoothed the blankets over Clara and then covered her with the quilt she asked him to retrieve. “Sleep now, Clara. You should be okay for a while.” The Doctor straightened up and prepared to leave the room.

“Doctor?”

“Clara?”

“Can you get sick from what I’ve got?”

He chuckled. “No, I can’t catch it, so I’ll be able to take good care of you.”

“Doctor?” She rolled from her side to her back.

“Yes?”

“Can you read to me for a while? I like knowing you’re right here.”

“Okay.” He dragged a chair from the corner next to the bed and picked up a book he borrowed from Clara’s personal library.  
“Mastering the Art of French Cooking…”

“Doctor?”

He swallowed his irritation and looked up at the ceiling before looking back at Clara. “Clara.”

“Not there.” She lifted her arm up as best as she could and let it fall on the empty half of the bed with a thump. “Here.”

He sighed and climbed onto the other side of the bed, inwardly reminding himself that Clara was probably not doing this on purpose to get back at him for all the times he gave her a hard time and to be patient. 

The Doctor bit back a smile when she snuggled against his side and let out a contented noise. “Better?”

“Quite. Thanks.” She rolled onto her side and threw an arm around his chest in a one-‐armed hug that the Doctor did not resist as he began reading again.

He initially skipped the introductory section, but then came across terms he didn’t know and backtracked to the cooking definitions.

The Doctor had just finished reading the recipe for potage parmentier-‐ leek and potato soup, when a loud snore sounded from his shoulder. The medicine had finally kicked in enough to put her under. Very slowly, the Doctor lifted Clara’s death grip on his sweater and eased her arm off him. He slid out of bed, taking the book with him, intent on making soup for Clara. Something with chicken-‐ humans liked chicken when they were unwell for some reason.

Reaching the door, he turned back when he heard a distressed sound from the bed. Apparently he wasn’t as stealthy as he had thought. Clara was shivering and patted the space he had just vacated, looking for his warmth. Or perhaps just wanted him. The Doctor crossed back to the bed and set his hands on Clara’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he soothed the sick woman. “I’ll stay until you wake up.” He tucked her head under his chin and ran one hand up and down her back, the other smoothing her hair. “Didn’t know I could be a proper medical doctor,” he laughed quietly. The Doctor kissed her cheek affectionately. “Clara Oswald, you agreed to elope with me at Christmas. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.”

“Let’s hope this is the last sickness for either of us for a while,” Clara rasped sleepily and pressed a kiss to his neck.


End file.
